Adventures with Kevin

Immediately after the tournament, we drove north into the Maluti Mountains, toward a tiny, remote village called Malealea. It was getting dark as we approached a sign which read “Gates of Paradise,” which lead us through the valleys of Malealea and into the village. We arrived at the Malealea Lodge, ate dinner (buffet-style, unlimited food is a major plus these days), and went to bed so excited to see the place in the daylight. I woke up and ran up the hill to see the view, which, as I predicted, was spectacular. Our trip to Lesotho, and Malealea, was a much needed holiday after weeks of hard work, long days, and meetings. I read my book on the porch of the lodge, overlooking the mountains, and happily drank instant coffee (which is actually beginning to grow on me).

Dying to get into the village and explore the landscape, we hired a guide (aptly named Malealea) to lead us on a day-long trek into the Maluti Mountains to Botsabelo Waterfall. Bri, Anthony and Meghan went by foot, but I decided to join Malealea on horseback. Ponies are the primary means of transportation here, and I wanted to experience it for myself (donkeys are too, but you couldn’t pay me to ride one of those). The landscape was beautiful (see pictures: picasaweb.google.com/leahrbh) and seemingly untouched; shepherds young and old (all wearing Seanna Marenas) with flocks of goat, sheep, horses and cattle, no electricity, and small huts lining the countryside. Little kids appeared out of nowhere, grabbing our hands, and following us as far as their bare feet could take them. I really could not believe that I was actually in the middle of Lesotho, in a tiny village, on a pony. My pony’s name was Kevin, an embarrassing but true fact that Bri is making me share. Kevin and I had an interesting power dynamic going on – he had all the power, and I had none. Granted, I had no idea how to control him, so it may have been my fault, but he was incredibly stubborn; when I tried to make him stop so I could take a photo, he either turned right, jerked his head down, or sped up. He seemed to be unsure about his footing at times, especially as we went through incredibly steep and rocky passages toward the waterfall. Several times, he simply refused to take a downward step, and Malealea (our guide) had to backtrack to help me out. I was assured that he wouldn’t fall, but it was somewhat scary to be high, high in the mountains, atop a pony with uneasy footing. Eventually, though, my Kevin and I made peace, and we had a lovely time.

As we got to know our guide, he told us there was a village soccer game taking place later that afternoon, and we went to watch. There was a fairly nice pitch, with two real goals, and both teams had brand-new jerseys. (Apparently, several wealthy travelers had recently sponsored the uniforms, soccer field, and even local high school). It seemed like the entire village turned up to watch the game. I was content; watching a soccer game, listening to locals singing and dancing (not unlike Celtic fans), and looking at the view beyond the field, which was, again, unreal.

Later, we watched a local choir and band perform with hand-made instruments, and drank Maluti beer (Lesotho’s local beer). We ended up meeting some Americans (yay!), who live in a small town in the Free State, and we spent hours sharing stories back of forth of our bizarre, unexpected experiences living in South Africa thus far. Our short time in Lesotho was wonderful, and Bri and I have already decided that we have to go back.

Unfortunately, getting back into South Africa was a headache. We drove up north to see Maseru, the capital of Lesotho. As it turns out, Maseru is a busy, dusty, crowded city, and the main entry-port into South Africa. We got stopped at the border, and had to join the long lines and wait in the hot sun (no shade - good thing I carry sunblock everywhere I go) for almost two hours to have our passports stamped. There were four long lines, and as I tried to explain to the guard that I was American and didn’t know where to stand, he barked “Americans, Germans, whoever, you wait over there!” Not the best way to end our ideal vacation, but not surprising either.